


Arms of the Angels

by J3 (CaseMatthews)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Utopia, Future Fic, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Wing Kink, Winged Gabriel, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseMatthews/pseuds/J3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The angels haven’t been Guardians since humans could wander the streets and buy hamburgers and write their own laws and marry and fuck whoever the hell they wanted. They haven’t been Guardians since they leapt out of the closet and screamed ‘obey’."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arms of the Angels

**Author's Note:**

> YOLO, I wrote some Sabriel, bitches. This is basically a mix of kinks for me, so enjoy if you will :)

It’s quiet in the cells today. This whole last week, Sam’s been kept awake by screams and fucking… _howls_ , but this morning? Peace. Strange peace but peace all the same. He supposes he should be worried about that: the quiet. Maybe even slightly suspicious given the volume of his previous last few days, but honestly it’s good for even just this morning. Even if it lasts too seconds before the young girl in the cell opposite ( _unconscious, which explains it; not dead, Sam can see her chest moving_ ) chokes awake on the click of two fingers and starts shrieking her lungs out again, this peace is a peace this currently drugged, dozed out Sam can really get behind. Because screaming with a headache? Not fun.

There’s still no noise when the guard comes to throw him his food. Other than the expected, “Chew on that, fuck-face,” and a crude crotch grab and leer, nothing. Yeah, okay, it’s getting eerie now. Something’s up. Two weeks Sam’s been in this particular whore-house and one: no one’s even _entered his cell_ since his unwilling arrival here and two: he hasn’t had one single second that wasn’t highlighted and echoed by sobs or shouts. Not one. And now all of a sudden it’s like a fucking mausoleum, it’s so silent. Sam’s beginning to resent it.

No one speaks again when the sound of cell doors being clicked open vibrates through the walls in the same concession it always does. Sam settles back against his cot and slips his eyes shut to wait out the rest of the creepily silent day tucked back in his own head and hidden away from this freak show. Or the grotty mirror above the sink. That too.

He startles when that familiar click sounds from far closer than it should, snapping his gaze open again. His own door… _what?_ Since when the hell is _Sam’s_ door open? Since when the hell is _any_ door anywhere near him open? That’s…definitely wrong. Nope, nu-uh, Sam’s taking a step back here, time out. Something’s fucked and he does not want any part in whatever’s made his door wide and welcoming. The girl opposite is still none the wiser in her dreams, her own gate as snapped tight as the two beside her, the same way it always is when the others get called for their day. Sam’s unruly. Sam’s not _trained_. Sam…Sam’s not paid by the hour, for fuck’s sake, he’s not made for this. Oh, fucking Christ.

“Get your fucking ass out here, two-seven-five,” comes that rusted voice over the tannoy. Sam looks up in the things general direction and glances at the camera beside his bunk, blinking ominously at him. Jesus Christ, this isn’t gonna be good… “One…Two…”

“Okay, okay,” Sam hastens pissily, snapping his body standing and waving his hands in placation to the camera. Yeah, he knows what these bastards are willing to do. Still has the goddamn scars to prove it.

So he moves to the wide open bars of his cell and peeks his head through, assessing whatever the hell this situation is before jumping in headfirst. And when he just catches glimpse of some blonde dude—donned in the same basketball shorts and armband as him—turning the corner at the end of the hall, he’s stepping out ( _reluctantly_ ) and inching to follow.

Other barred doors are open when Sam passes, but maybe not as many as the snaps of metal clanking would suggest most days. And certainly not his. They wouldn’t risk it, right? This unruly guy with no training or discipline?

Right. Well, this is it then. Sam’s about to be raped. Either stuffed so full of Viagra for some demon chick he’s hard for the rest of the century, or…oh god. Or some demon boy’s bitch. They’ll probably keep him plugged, won’t they? Plugged up…fuck, plugged up _both ends_ ( _all ends, ass, mouth and cock_ ) and strapped down like some chick with a willing hole. Keep him wet. Jesus.

And yeah, Sam’s been sold around a bit since That Day two months ago but not one single capture has tried to fuck him. Brands, sure, whips and handcuffs and the fucking waterboarding thing that assisted absolutely nothing, but…no-one’s gone near his cock. No-one’s touched his ass and maybe Sam was stupid enough to hope it stayed that way? He’s been stationed in three whore-houses after all. He should have figured he’d be called out at some point. Two month marker seems about as good as any. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

When Sam rounds the same corner as the blonde boy, a guard’s there waiting for him and he’s wacked over the head with the handle of the man’s gun ( _not hard enough to knock him unconscious, but hard enough for him to have to rub it_ ) as some sadistic kind of ‘get moving’. Sam does, after offering a glare, and the black-clad man follows up the rear and keeps pushing him aggravatingly along a bland corridor Sam’s never been down before. Well. He could have, considering the state he was in upon arriving, it would probably be a miracle if he did actually remember. But for right now, Sam doesn’t recognise it. They turn one more corner and catch up with the blonde guy—joined by a trolley of a few other men Sam’s not sure of either, but they’re all dressed the same so he figures they’re all in similar positions. They probably know what they’re doing though. How to pleasure. How to fuck demons.

All… _seven?_...of them are lead into an adjoining room by Sam’s gun-happy guard and lined up there, random order as far as Sam can tell, and knocked about with the muzzles of shotguns, handguns alike until every single one of them are stood straight, tall and chin up… Okay? Since when did demons want snappy little humans? They liked…obedience. Trembling figures bleeding into their rugs, not…not this. Oh God, maybe they want to break them? Break Sam down and ruin him, oh _God_ …

( _You regret this, you idiot, shoulda stayed with Dean, shoulda kept running and running and running…)_

No. Fucking _no_ , that wasn’t an option. Dean was…Dean needed where he was, he needed that place and Sam…fuck, yeah, Sam had to leave, okay? Dean’s good now and…this isn’t _so_ bad. He can take rape, it’s only sex, right? And hey, it’s only rape if he lets it be. ( _Fuck, you fucking idiot_ )

Yeah. Sam can deal with this, he totally can. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _get a grip, come on, Sammy, you’re a big boy_ —

Two guards stay behind the line of whores. Sam doesn’t look, but he would bet guns are pointed at them right now. Two more man each door ( _four doors in total, eight guards_ ) and another watches them from the front. Now Sam’s not exactly an expert but…eleven guards? Keeping eight fuck-slaves in line, seriously? Huh. Sam’s actually quite flattered.

Every single guard turns when the door to Sam’s right shifts open. Every single one in the line of Sam’s sight turns, flounders unknowingly for a few seconds, before they release whatever’s clutched in their right hands and thump the fist right over their heart which is weird, because you only ever do that if you’re greeting…an angel. Worse, it’s worse than the demons, it’s fucking worse, oh fuck, fuck, fuck…

Yup, Sam’s regretting. Regretting big-time. This was a mistake, a big fucking mistake. Worse than rape. Murder.

Fucking _angels_.

Sam still can’t see the being, but he can _see_ the imposing shadow, can _feel_ it’s presence and it’s fucking wings as he takes up space in the room, demands it. Sam gulps, but he doesn’t look. No more attention, he doesn’t need that drawn. God _dammit_.

“Select choice of men, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, your grace,” a guard says, deep voiced. Still on the opposite end of the row, apparently, and they’ve got six more to go before Sam’s end. Six more before the angel finds out and smites him where he stands. Is it hot in here? Sam’s sweating. And trembling. Maybe it’s cold?

“Yeah, I get that,” someone else ( _the angel, it has to be_ ) says, his voice cocky with an edge no-one but an outsider or boss would dare use with these guard-halfwits. Dumb as pig-shit, but they have guns, Tasers ( _ow_ ) and batons, so…yeah, Sam’s not an idiot. He tries to run now, he might as well be asking for hell, because that’s all they’d give him. So he waits. And waits.

And when three ( _fucking_ three) bronze come gold come tawny, freshly groomed wings come into view, Sam…well Sam’s not sure what he’s gonna do. What he’s supposed to do, currently stood shirtless, donned with an armband tracking device, blood pumping demon taint through him, in the presence of an _archangel_. Really, what the hell _is_ a guy to do?

And when the archangel moves onto him ( _how does a guy carry six giant wings like that and make it look so effortless_ ) Sam’s about ready for death, he thinks. He’s come to terms with it. He’s said his piece—in his head, obviously. He wants Dean to have everything he couldn’t, needs his big brother to be happier than Sam ever could have been.

“Well, look at that,” the angel says, now clearly in view. Sam doesn’t look at him though ( _short for the thing he is, Sam can get away with looking at flicks of golden-looking hair_ ), just stares ahead obediently. Less attention, less attention… “How old are you?”

Sam glances down then. The man with those fox eye’s definitely knows. He just does, Sam can tell by the smirk—why else would he be interested in Sam and not utter a peep to any of the other ‘contestants’? He _knows_.

Sam clears his throat. “Twenty two.”

A guard nudges ( _fucking_ whacks) the space of spine between Sam’s shoulder blades until he wheezes out a pointless, “Sir.”

The archangel looks caught somewhere between irritated and pleased ( _must not be used to people forgetting the title_ ) and the guard behind him growls out, “’Your grace’, you fucking moron,” but Sam doesn’t bother saying it. He’s an abomination. This man’s gonna smite him, he’s not wasting breath with pleasantries. Besides. Fuck the guard.

“Leave the boy alone,” the archangel waves off, flicking his hand at the guard. He looks back to Sam, still smirking, “And what’s your name, handsome?” he asks.

Sam gulps. “Sam.”

The archangel raises both eyebrows and turns his mouth down in an amused, considering gesture, before laughing and saying, “Sam Winchester.” Not a question. “Well, I thought I recognised those perky nipples,” he says, actually reaching up to _pinch one_ , before his hand gets swiftly knocked away by Sam’s and Sam’s yanked to the floor by gun buts and gloved hands. He keeps scowling up at the angel though. Fuck him. Get it the hell over with already, will ya?

A guard reaches forward and snaps the same nipple Gabriel touched ( _peeked, only against the ministrations,_ obviously) between two leather-clad fingers and squeezes a pained hiss from between Sam’s teeth. Just fucking doing it to spite, but he doesn’t care. Fuck them all if he’s about to die, fuck them.

“You little fucking _savage_ ,” the guards spits, spraying it into Sam’s ear. “You apologise to your Guardian.”

Fucking Guardian. Yeah, right. The angels haven’t been Guardians since humans could wander the streets and buy hamburgers and write their own laws and marry and fuck whoever the hell they wanted. They haven’t been Guardians since they leapt out of the closet and screamed ‘obey’.

Sam spazzes at the tap of the Taser to his tailbone, jolts and growls at the sharp, sudden zing of pain that cascades over his body and falls forwards to his hands to just rest there and pant, staring down at the archangels boots and trying to gain control back over his movements again. Everything’s painfully silent for the second time today as the world comes back to him again, his entire lower body still twitching in pain and he can feel the gaze of twenty odd pairs of eyes staring down at him. He spits blood to the floor and hangs his head.

“Fuck you,” he hisses.

A guard moves forward again, Sam can hear them, but nothing happens for tense seconds and the boots shift from Sam’s vision. He flinches away from them, but nothing collides. No damning fingertips burning him alive, no boot stamped to his spine.

“Enough,” the archangel commands, voice lazy. “Get up, Sam Winchester.”

And there’s nothing for Sam to do but comply. It’s slow ( _painful_ ) but once he’s stood to his real height vast inches above this being, he’s never quite felt so small, which is odd. The archangel winks at him.

“The boy with the demon blood.” _He knows_. Jesus fuck. “I’ll take him.”

…wait… _what_? He’ll _take_ him? Take him fucking where? But he’s moving off now, back the way he came and Sam’s left stood dumbstruck staring after him with eight pissed off guards surrounding and moving in.

“One mark on that skin, I’ll smite you into dust, understood?” and then he’s gone. He’s just…gone.

_-†-_

Twenty minutes later, Sam’s sat in the backseat of a Bentley. And…he has absolutely no idea what just happened. Beyond…so the guy wants to take time torturing him, is that it? Wants to prolong the inevitable, right. Okay. So what, Sam belongs to him now? Sam’s some live in fuck-toy to an archangel. Typical. Fucking typical. Dean’s kicking it back in some Fallen compound with a _fallen angel_ and here Sam is hanging in the backseat of _an archangel_. What the hell just happened? What the hell _is_ happening?

“You cold back there, human?” someone asks from up front, and Sam jolts shakily in his seat. He hadn’t noticed anyone was in here. When he looks though, there’s a tell-tale fluff of pale blue wings from the driver’s seat and a mop of jet black hair over the top. Sam blinks at him. “You aren’t wearing a shirt…is that normal? Humans not wearing proper clothes?”

Sam… _blinks_. Again. “Uh…no, I guess not. It wasn’t exactly by choice. And no, I uh, I’m not cold.”

“Oh,” angel-boy says. He sounds young. “Sorry, human. Of course it’s not, I wasn’t thinking. I apologise.”

“My names Sam,” Sam informs quickly. “Call me Sam, please.”

But the angel boy hesitates, clearing his throat before reiterating, “You belong to Gabriel now. It’s up to him what I call you.”

“Gabriel,” Sam says the name, feeling it out. He knows it, right? From…somewhere.

Two seconds later the car door’s opening and said archangel and six wings come bustling in with more grace than Sam has even on his best days. He’s grinning. Sam’s gonna hurl.

“You met Samandriel, then?” he asks, trailing one stray hand over and gripping tightly at Sam’s knee. “Good. Sam, call him Sam. Vice versa. So,” he says, clapping his hands. “You ready for this?”

No. No he is not.


End file.
